“No one except my brother Thomas has such a talent for saying the very thing that will irritate me most.”
“Eh bien.” Bayard nodded thoughtfully before offering Christophe one of the cherries. “It is because we both know you so well. And we hope to draw you out of yourself.”
“I don’t need you to draw me out.” He scowled, trying to distract himself with thoughts of work. Thank God for the many building details that waited for his attention today! Rising, he went to pour water into a bowl and washed his face and chest.
“And what of this MacAskill fellow?” Bayard persisted. “Is he friend or foe?”
“Why should you care?”
“He came lurking around this morning as I continued work on the roundel of your lady. I had the feeling that he could recognize her already and was not pleased.”
“She is not my lady!” Christophe closed his eyes for a moment until he could bring himself to add, “MacAskill wishes to make her his wife, or so I have heard.”
Bayard blinked several times, seemingly at a loss for words. “Ah. That would explain it, then.”
“I don’t feel like talking.” As he donned a gray doublet, Christophe sighed and added, “I wish we were in France again.”
“Then you will be pleased by my surprise.” Bayard went to the open door and motioned to someone who apparently was waiting beyond the grove of trees surrounding the cottage.
Christophe turned to see a slim, pale young woman come into the doorway. Next to her was his Grand Bleu hound, Raoul. For an instant, he thought he must be dreaming, but then Raoul was bounding across the cottage. When Christophe went down on one knee, the big dog embraced him, wrapping both forelegs around his shoulders.
That instant when Christophe turned his face against Raoul’s long, silky ear and breathed in the hound’s familiar scent, tears burned his eyes. Raoul’s mother, Lucie, had grown up with Christophe at Château de Soleil. He had learned to hunt by her side, and after he lost both his parents it sometimes seemed that Lucie looked after him with even more devotion than his elderly aunt or often-absent brother. It had been a natural thing, once he reached manhood, to transfer that bond to Lucie’s son, Raoul.
“I was told that he could not stop howling for you, m’sieur,” Bayard said. “When your brother learned that Mary of Guise had sent for additional servants, he insisted that Raoul accompany them.” The mason paused to gesture to the woman who waited in the doorway. “This lady, Violette Pasquiére, was good enough to look after Raoul during the journey.”
Christophe got to his feet, all the while continuing to stroke the hound’s ears, and extended a hand to Violette. She was confident-looking, with expressive golden-brown eyes and a small cleft in her chin, but the rest of her was hidden under the plainest of gowns and an unadorned French hood.
“I am in your debt, mademoiselle,” he said sincerely. “I have missed Raoul more than I would have thought possible.”
“It was my pleasure to do this,” she replied with an unguarded smile. “I was alone on the voyage and he was very good company.”
“I know exactly what you mean! He is an excellent companion. You must feel free to visit Raoul while you are at Falkland Palace, mademoiselle. Will you be in service to the new Queen of Scotland?”
Her smile faded only slightly. “I hope to be. You see…I begged to come with the new servants, hoping for a position in the queen’s spice house, but now I am told that place has been filled by a man. I must try to find something else within the royal court.” She paused, adding, “One of the queen’s ladies, Mademoiselle de la Touche, has promised to help me.”
“Ah, that’s good,” Christophe said, relieved to know she would have a roof over her head after coming all the way to Scotland. In the next moment, his thoughts drifted back to Raoul, imagining the scene when he would introduce the great hound to Fiona. She would drop to her knees and stroke his spotted fur, smiling into his eyes and bonding with him…
Bayard waved a hand in the air to catch his attention. “M’sieur, are you unwell? Perhaps you should have something to eat.”
With a jolt, Christophe came back to the present moment, remembering that everything had changed. There would not be any tender scenes between Fiona and Raoul, nor would the three of them go for walks in the blossoming apple orchard, as he had just begun to imagine.
“Alors, let us go in search of food,” he said briskly. Turning to Violette, Christophe added, “Mademoiselle, have you tasted the oatcakes? You must learn to like them because you’ll find the Scots serve them with every meal.”
“Oat-cake?” she repeated doubtfully in her French accent. “What is it?”
“Ah, then we must go in search of some before Bayard must return to his work.”
The trio set off toward the Bakehouse with Raoul happily trotting along at his master’s side.
* * *
“Where have ye been?” Magnus demanded when Fiona came through the door of her family’s palace rooms. A few steps behind him stood Ramsay, watching as always.
“Must you behave as if I am meant to be a prisoner here? I went out for a walk and encountered the queen. She has been learning the Scots and Gaelic tongues so that she might be better able to accompany her husband on visits throughout Scotland.” As she spoke, Fiona’s enthusiasm overcame her annoyance with Magnus. “Isn’t that lovely? It was my pleasure to walk with her for a bit and help her improve her new skills.”
Her father’s face was ruddy with emotion and his nostrils flared as he stepped closer to her. “Ye would not lie to me, I hope, Fiona Rose.”
“Lie to you?” Outraged, she advanced until they stood toe-to-toe. “I never thought I would see the day that my own da would doubt my word.”
“Ye have secrets,” he muttered, staring into her eyes. “Will ye deny it?”
Before she could reply, Ramsay stepped forward and put a hand on her father’s shoulder. “Ach, sir, I hope ye will not say things you’ll regret. This lass is your precious daughter, is she not?”
Confused, Fiona looked at Ramsay and he gave her a reassuring smile. He was the last person she wanted to feel gratitude toward, but how could she rebuff his kindness?
“It’s true, she is precious indeed,” Magnus said, his eyes filling with tears. “Lass, can ye forgive me? If I’ve been petty and mistrustful, it’s only because I fear ye might run away.” To her horror, he began to weep. “Aye, if I should lose both your ma and ye, I do not know if I could go on.”
“Da, please don’t fret. I’ll not leave you.” As Fiona tried to embrace her father, she could feel Ramsay patting his back from behind. This encroachment on her relationship with her parent made her long to push the other man away, but it seemed that she could not even protest. Magnus appeared to sanction Ramsay’s interference, even welcome it.
“If ye say that ye mean to come home with me to Skye, to wed Ramsay so that ye might bring new bairns to our family and live close to me…I will gladly believe ye,” Magnus whispered. Wistfully, he added, “Ah, Fi, mayhap ye’ll have a bonnie daughter who will take after your beautiful ma. Could ye imagine the joy such a lass would bring to me in my last years?”
Fiona nodded, wondering if he was trying to manipulate her, but then decided that perhaps he really couldn’t help it. And who could blame him for having such feelings and longings?
“Perhaps that day will come, Da.”
“I too pray that it does,” Ramsay chimed in.
Magnus looked from Fiona’s face to Ramsay’s. “I am weary to the bone. I tossed about all night…” He stepped back, adding, “Mayhap a brief lie-down would do me good.”
“Wait, I nearly forgot to tell you the best thing that happened today!” said Fiona, taking his hand before he could turn away. “The queen told me that she and her ladies will hunt with the men tomorrow morning, and she has invited me to join her party.”
To her surprise, he shook his head. “Nay. Ye might be in danger.”
“But, Da!” Fiona
felt a sense of panic, like a bird madly fluttering its wings when it finds itself trapped in a cage. “Did you not tell me that I might hunt when the queen goes out?”
Again, Ramsay soothed her father. “Aye, the outing will be good for our dear Fi. And we can all hunt.” He smiled again. “Together.”
“Hmm. You may be right…”
Watching Magnus nod agreement then trudge off to indulge in a nap, Fiona was conscious of the heat from Ramsay’s body as he came closer. Suddenly it was hard to breathe.
“Ye may have need of someone like me to help ye deal with your da?” The Highlander murmured. He came around on her right side, brushing against her bodice. “’Tis time you grew into a woman, Fi, and learned to lean on your man.”
She was so angry, it felt as if her heart would come out of her chest. “It was never my choice to wed you, Ramsay.”
“Ye are willful,” he replied. Fiona was shocked to feel his big hands on her arms as he drew her against him and bent to kiss her. Her heart was racing with panic. Did she dare to resist?
Before she could speak again, Ramsay exclaimed, “What’s that?”
Fiona followed his gaze to the brooch she wore, the one carved with serpents and set with a ruby, given to her by her mother shortly before she died. “It is but a small keepsake,” she said lightly. “’Tis very old.”
He released her arms and put a hand out to touch the ruby. In that instant, Fiona remembered how he had tried to look at the brooch that day at Duntulm Castle, when she had passed him in the tower doorway.
“I would have a closer look, lass.” Ramsay put on the smile he had clearly been practicing, wearing it like a stylish hat that didn’t quite fit. “Will ye unclasp it so I may see better?” He reached out with his free hand to grip her upper arm again, a bit tighter this time.
“Nay, I do not wish to take it off,” Fiona said firmly, yet fearing he would hear the underlying tremor in her voice. “And I bid you release me.”
Just then, she glimpsed a figure in the doorway that led to the Gallery. It was Isbeil, watching them with an expression of outrage.
“Lass, has he hurt ye?” the nurse cried. She tottered forward, limping slightly, and shook a withered fist at Ramsay. “By the saints, if ye harm one hair on the head of my sweet mistress, ye will answer to me!”
The brawny Highland warrior released Fiona’s arm and stepped back. “I did nothing wrong. Leave us now, old woman.”
“Nay,” Fiona said, realizing that if he had her alone, there would be no escaping his kiss. “It’s you who must go.”
Their eyes met and locked. After a moment, Ramsay slowly nodded.
“Aye, I will leave ye…this time.” Ramsay reached out to run a hand down her neck to touch the brooch. “But take heed, Fiona. Ye are promised to me and I shall have ye as my wife. Ye would be wise to cease your struggles and accept the path ahead.”
When he had left the chamber, Isbeil went to the door and latched it behind him. “Do ye truly mean to wed the man?”
“It seems I must.” She tried to tell herself that he was simply being a Highlander, beating his chest to prove his dominance over her. “My life was set out for me by an unseen hand, long ago, when Mama’s health began to weaken.”
“Your ma was never a well woman,” Isbeil interjected. “And ye were always her helper, since ye took your first steps.”
“And today she needs me still. Do you understand? It’s a legacy between us that I should look after Da and my brothers as she would have done if she’d been stronger. I cannot entertain selfish dreams.”
“But that man doesna deserve so fine a lass as ye!” the old woman cried. “And I do not trust him.” Lowering her voice, she added, “I came upon him yesterday, looking through your chest of clothing.”
“What harm could that be? There may be an innocent reason for his curiosity.” Fiona said, trying to suppress the cold feeling that came over her at the thought of Ramsay touching her things. “I try to believe that Da sees something in him I cannot.”
“Aye. I suppose MacAskill could be worse,” mused Isbeil. “He does have all his legs and arms. He’s not been afflicted with the pox. And I have heard he has treasure, hidden away…”
* * *
St. Briac glanced up, smelling rain in the air even though the day was peaceful. It was, perhaps, a bit too still, and he guessed a storm was not far away.
“How is it coming along?” he asked Bayard, stopping near the roundel where the mason was carving a face into the surface of the ashlar. “Is the lady’s face firmly fixed in your mind?”
Before Bayard could stop his work and form a reply, Violette spoke up. “Oh, is it meant to be a real person? How fascinating!”
“Oui,” said Christophe. “It is.” He really didn’t care to elaborate, but this Frenchwoman knew nothing of Fiona, so what harm could there be in telling her? He gestured to another nearby stonemason who was carving near them. “That other medallion will feature the likeness of Mary of Guise herself.”
“But who will this be?” Violette asked, turning back to Bayard’s roundel.
Raoul was watching him closely, and not for the first time, Christophe sensed that the hound understood every word they spoke.
Bayard spoke up now. “I hope to capture the likeness of a captivating young woman who hails from the Isle of Skye. Her name is Fiona MacLeod.”
“I have a drawing that may aid your memory,” Christophe said. He reached inside his jerkin and brought out the small rolled-up piece of parchment. It was an excellent sketch he’d made of Fiona one recent afternoon. He had just unfurled it when a shadow fell over them.
“Why do ye carry the likeness of my betrothed?” demanded Ramsay MacAskill, glaring from one man to the other.
Christophe bit back the things he wanted to say. Instead, he took a deep breath and replied with studied patience, “This stonemason is carving a lady’s face. It is one of several, as you can see, that will include the new queen and some of her ladies. Mademoiselle MacLeod is lovely enough to have also been chosen to grace one of the medallions.”
“Oh, aye.” MacAskill sniffed. “I suppose that’s all right then, for there could be no lovelier lady at court.” Narrowing his eyes, he added, “But Fiona’s no mademoiselle, she’s a true Scots lass. And she is to be my bride.”
As their eyes met, both men smiled, but Christophe saw that the Highlander was clearly suspicious. He wanted to give the man his back, but for Fiona’s sake, he did not.
“I can understand both your concern and your pride, m’sieur,” Christophe said, coolly gracious. “But we are merely laboring in service of the king.”
Ramsay MacAskill nodded at them and stalked off. As he went, Raoul bared his teeth slightly and gave a low growl.
“Raoul, your judgment is impeccable, as always,” Christophe said. Reaching down, he stroked the dog’s head, while continuing to stare after the big Highlander with a grim smile.
Chapter 13
“Do you suppose we will have rain, mademoiselle?” murmured Mary of Guise as she stood near Fiona in the courtyard. All around them, members of the court were assembling for the hunt, and there were packs of dogs straining to be set free.
“I do hope not,” replied Fiona. She tried not to look at the threatening sky, wondering instead if she would be allowed to hunt with her gyrfalcon, Erik. “I have been longing to go out with the men, and I hope nothing will spoil our pleasure. I am very grateful to you for inviting me, Your Majesty.”
The queen looked wistful as their eyes met. “Your kindness has made me feel more comfortable in this new place,” she said. “Not only have you helped me to converse in your Scots language, but our lessons have been a welcome distraction from thoughts of my little son.”
Fiona remembered then the conversation she had overheard between the queen and Christophe, in the garden. “You must miss him very much. May I ask his name?”
“François.” Queen Mary blinked back tears. “He is but two years old.
Perhaps you have heard that I came to your king as a widow? My husband left this world scarcely one year ago, and after his death, I gave birth to another son who was sickly and did not survive.”
A wave of compassion swept over Fiona as she reflected on the many tragic and difficult events endured by the young queen in the span of one year. What must it have been like to be forced not only to wed James V, but also to come to a strange country and leave one’s tiny child behind? Her son François is almost an orphan, Fiona thought, for he now lacks both parents. “You have my tender sympathies for all you have suffered,” she whispered.
“Little François is with my mother,” Mary said. She stood up a little straighter and even managed a smile. “No doubt he is much happier at our ancestral home, Châteaudun, than he could possibly be here with me. Of course, he is now the Duc de Longueville…and is doted on by my family.”
Fiona longed to touch the older woman’s arm in a gesture of friendship, to say that she could only imagine how torn the queen must be, but already she had strained decorum. Unable to find the proper words, Fi replied with only a smile.
“My dear, have you not been told that all your feelings show on your face?” Queen Mary asked, arching a brow for emphasis. “A woman’s duty is often not what we would choose were we given free will. Perhaps you are already learning this.”
On the other side of the courtyard, Fiona saw Christophe de St. Briac emerge through the arched north gate. Tall, hard, and wide-shouldered, he led his gray stallion with one hand while on his other gloved wrist rode Erik, her gyrfalcon.
* * *
“What the devil is that Frenchman doing here?” grumbled Ramsay MacAskill. He stood with Magnus MacLeod a short distance behind Fiona and the queen, watching the scene unfold as he waited for a groom to bring his horse. “He doesn’t belong among the royal court! He’s a cursed stonemason!”
Abducted at the Altar: A St. Briac Family Novel (Brides of Skye, Book 1) Page 13